


A Merry Little Christmas

by GerbilsInMyTardis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Drabble, Fluff, Gen, Pocket!lock, nose kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GerbilsInMyTardis/pseuds/GerbilsInMyTardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pocket!Sherlock and Normal!John have a stupidly fluffy Christmas eve, complete with eggnog, experiments, and a very tiny drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Merry Little Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for a friend, whom I can hope will forgive me for the excessive lateness... WIP, may or may not end up tweaked slightly, added to excessively, or abandoned for the next amazing idea she gives me.

“Ow. What the hell, Sherlock?” John asked, kneeling down to pick the little man up. “I did tell you, no more projectiles,” he added, brow wrinkling as he pulled the needle from his cheek. “How’d you even manage to shoot that all the way up here? It’s not poisoned, is it?” Sherlock shook his head no, pouting. His idea had been fantastic- blow darts, the arrows fashioned from needles that had fallen from the tree. He hadn’t yet worked on the poison he planned to integrate. The experiments were still in progress, but he’d figured out how to inject substances through the plant’s natural vein system. It was fascinating. 

John held out a thimbleful of eggnog, letting Sherlock examine it before setting it down beside the little man. “I don’t think you’ve had this yet, have you? It’s pretty much milk and bourbon,” he intoned, pouring himself a mugful as well. “I’d light a fire, but you’d find a way to blow something up, wouldn’t you.” Sherlock simply smiled, taking a tentative sip of the liquid. Strange, thicker than he’d expected. Frothy. As he swallowed the first gulp, Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the aftertaste-- nutmeg. As revolting a spice as any, he supposed, setting the thimble down. It was rather a heavy cup for his liking, anyway. John continued to sip at his own drink, leaving a little milky stripe above his lip. “Don’t like it?” he asked, reaching out a hand for Sherlock to climb into. As Sherlock clambered into John’s palm, he brought the thimble with him, holding it out at arm’s length for John to take. “You still thirsty? Let’s see what we’ve got, then,” John said, setting it on the countertop as he walked to the fridge. “There’s cider, although you didn’t like it last time either. Too acidic for your liking, yeah? We’ve just got more eggnog and a bit of orange juice, but you know what happens when you drink that stuff this late.” Sherlock grinned. His tiny robe had nestled around him, spreading over John’s fingers like a flower. “It’s not funny, you little bugger,” the man replied, the slight curl of his lips betraying his words. “I can’t believe how much stuff you managed to get into. You on a sugar high- it’s terrifying.” Sherlock’s grin lightened, turning into an only slightly-manic smile. He pointed at the wine, tilting his head. “That’s wine. Can you even have alcohol?” John asked. Sherlock replied with a shrug. He’d never had the patience to experiment with alcohol. It required tedious fermentation, and he hadn’t the equipment to let it properly sit without his supervision. “So you’ve no idea what it’ll do to you. I don’t fancy going to A&E with an alcohol-poisoned gnome.” As soon as the word ‘gnome’ passed John’s lips, Sherlock frowned, leaning down to land a bite on the side of John’s thumb. “Jesus, Sherlock! I’m going to drop you if you keep doing that.”

Regardless, John pulled the wine from where it sat on the top shelf, uncorking it with a pop. Sherlock, sitting on the counter, was beside himself with excitement. He absolutely had to find out how it had been pressurized. As John poured himself a glass, Sherlock hauled the thimble over, holding it out to his friend. “Not a chance, little man. Even if you can metabolize it, I’m not sure I want to know what happens when you’re drunk,” he said with a smile. 

John was certainly no lightweight, but two hours (six and a half glasses of wine, four cups of eggnog, and a finger of whisky) later, John found himself slumped at the kitchen table. Sherlock leaned over the edge with a scrap of paper and a bit of pencil lead. “Wha’re you doin’?” John slurred, wiping pine needles from where they’d embedded in his cheek. The little man just grinned, finishing his notes. Stretching, John winced as he glanced where Sherlock had been looking. Bits of glass littered the floor, broken baubles and piles of glitter everywhere. “Damnit, Sherlock.” He couldn’t help but giggle, though. How in the hell had the little man managed that? Just imagining it was hilarious. A tiny Sherlock, red-faced as he tried to shove a sparkly glass ball off the tabletop. It took a few moments, and a pointed bit of throat-clearing from Sherlock, for John to regain some of his composure. 

John set his friend down on the counter as he rinsed the congealed eggnog from the thimble, scooping a bit of his own wine with it. Rather more of the wine ended up on the counter than in the thimble, but John ignored it in favor of holding out the little glass. “Let’s try this, then. It’s gotta be hard to get’n trouble when you’re six cen- centii- centymeres tall and you’re tipsy,” he said, holding it out between a quivering thumb and forefinger. Sherlock took it with both hands, taking a single experimental sip. Swallowing, he stared into the cup. Finally, something to his liking! It was a strange, fruity wine, light-colored and apple-scented. He couldn’t wait to test it for explosive properties. John seemed oddly happy, stupidly so, and Sherlock briefly wondered if the same would occur to him. 

Within twenty minutes, Sherlock felt strange. Like he was floating, just a bit, across the tabletop. “Don’ get near the edge,” John said, giggling from where he sat. “Can’t get up to save you if y’fall. I’d prob’ly squash you.” Shaking his head, Sherlock sat down. It was less sitting than plopping, really, but John would never have dared say such a thing. Even drunk, he knew that the little man had access to poisons, not all strictly legal. Sherlock reached up to his own head, tugging at his curls, seemingly fascinated by them. John hiccuped and giggled again, reaching out a hand. “C’mere, Sherlock,” he said, prodding him with a fingertip. “I almost forgot. I’s New Years. Can’t f’rget a kiss, yeah?” Sherlock tilted his head, quickly righting himself after the universe tilted itself too, without his permission. John grinned. “Iss tradition! Gotta kiss som’body on New Years. At midnight.” He glanced at the clock, the numbers shifting around as he stared. Half three or so, he thought, muttering, “Close ‘nough.” Sherlock remained in John’s hand, tugging at his curls again. How in the world had he grown those things? Such fascinating things, how had he never noticed them before? The little man hiccuped, startling himself and jumping backwards. John giggled, repeating his previous words. “Gotta kiss som’body. Iss good luck. Go ‘head, Sherlock, i’s for good luck.” Sherlock tilted his head again confusedly, but shrugged. He gestured at John, prodding his hand closer to the man’s face. After a moment, he grabbed John’s thumb for purchase, and leaned forward, planting a tiny kiss on the tip of John’s nose.


End file.
